UPLAND,  VALE  and  GROVE 

SEEN  FROM  A  HIGHWAY  OF  HISTORIC  IMPORT 


By  MARIAN  A.   WHITE 

Author    of    "Book    of  the    North    Shore:"    Etc 


Chicago 
J.  HAKRISON  WHITE 


UPLAND,  VALE  and  GROVE 


God  gave  to  all  men  all  the  earth  to  love, 
But  since  man' s  heart  is  small, 

Ordains  for  each  one  spot  shall  prove 
Beloved  over  all. 

KIPLING 


UPLAND,  VALE  and  GROVE 


SEEN   FROM  A  HIGHWAY 
OF    HISTORIC    IMPORT 


INDIAN'  TRAIL  TREE 


By  MARIAN  A.   WHITE 

Author    of   ''Book    of   the    North    Shore,'*    Etc 


Copyright  1911 
By  J.  Harrison  White 


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UPLAND,  VALE  and  GROVE 


SEEN  FROM  A  HIGHWAY 
OF  HISTORIC   IMPORT 


WHEX  the  early  French  explorers — the  Jesuit  missionaries — 
came  to  that  portion  of  Illinois  now  designated  as  Cook 
and  Lake  counties,  the  Miami  Indians  cherished  this  par- 
ticular region,  from  one  to  three  miles  from  Lake  Michigan,  as  their 
hunting  grounds.  Over  this  territory  have  passed  some  of  the  most 
powerful  and  particularly  interesting  (from  an  ethnological  signif- 
icance) Indian  nations  of  the  Northwest.  These  nations,  divided  into 
tribes,  each  with  a  distinguishing  title,  were  invariably  at  war  one 
with  the  other,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  all 
other  tribes  had  been  driven  from  this  vicinity  by  the  powerful  and 
aggressive  Pottawattomies. 

The  lovely  Valley  of  the  Skokie,  to  which  so  many  Indian  trails 
have  been  traced,  is  filled  with  mysterious  charm.  Here,  in  an 
environment  of  forest,  where  the  black,  white  and  red  oak,  the  black 
walnut,  shell-bark  hickory,  the  butternut  and  cotton  wood  still  thrive 
in  regal  magnificence ;  where  the  dells  are  yet  rich  in  hazel  and  sumac 
growth,  with  a  scattering  of  red  and  white  pine,  came  the  Indian  in 
the  long,  long  ago,  in  pursuit  of  game. 

The  caribou  and  buffalo  were  hunted  in  this  region,  and  when 
the  Skokie  was  more  of  a  stream  than  it  is  at  present,  the  beaver  was 
busy  at  work  here,  while  droves  of  antelope  and  deer,  and  wild  turkeys 
were  familiar  to  the  billowy  uplands  that  rise  in  gentle,  fascinating  con- 
tours, holding  within  their  green  expanse  the  atmosphere  of  a  spacious 
repose.  The  Skokie  (Indian  for  "land  fire")  was  then  a  breeding 
place  for  myriads  of  waterfowl — wild  geese,  wild  swan,  duck,  pelican 
and  crane — and  the  white  hunter  still  prizes  it  as  a  hunting  ground. 


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We  may  still  find  in  the  woodlands  north  of  Chicago  the  trail 
tree, the  Indian's  signpost,  by  the  way,  designating  the  trail  or  by-way 
to  his  village  or  some  other  place  of  equal  interest  in  his  nomadic 
life.  These  trails  were,  for  generations,  the  only  highways  for 
missionary-explorer,  hunter,  trapper  and  pioneer  settler.  As  the 
country  came  more  under  the  influence  of  the  white  race,  these 
original  by-ways  were  gradually  broadened  to  a  roadway,  until  the 
coming  of  the  railroad  served  to  obliterate  much  of  the  aboriginal 
route,  as  well  as  to  efface  most  of  its  traditional  Significance. 

Such  has  been  the  fate  of  the  Green  Bay  Road,  which,  to  a  large 
extent,  covers  one  of  the  principal  Indian  trails  between  Chicago  and 
Waukegan  ("Little Fort"),  and  to  Milwaukee  and  Green  Bay.  This  was 
one  of  the  main  arteries  of  travel,  and  from  it  diverged  other  trails,  all  of 
which  were  not  only  of  import  to  the  Indian,  but  to  the  pioneer. 

So  far  as  can  be  learned,  the  designation  of  "Green  Bay  Road" 
was  assigned  to  the  old  trail,  when  in  1835,  under  the  supervision  of 
General  Scott,  U.  S.  A.,  it  became  the  first  extended  and  regularly 
laid-out  highway  from  Chicago  northward.  It  was,  as  many  of  the 
earlier  roadways  of  the  State,  constructed  for  military  purposes, 
forming  an  overland  connecting  link  between  the  military  post  at 
Green  Bay  and  other  points. 

At  this  period,  that  which  is  now  designated  the  "  North  Shore" 
was  comparatively  a  wilderness,  beautifully  wooded,  as  most  of  it  is 
today,  and  rising  in  gentle  undulations  to  the  north  and  west,  until 
in  the  latter  direction,  and  just  beyond  the  Green  Bay  Road,  it 
merges  its  undulating  richness  into  the  meads  and  grasslands  of  the 
lovely  Valley  of  the  Skokie,  and  in  what  is  now  designated  Lake 
County,  and  within  the  burgh  of  Highland  Park. 

There  is  little  doubt  but  that  the  County  Line  Road  between 
the  counties  of  Cook  and  Lake  is  the  original  site  of  an  old  trail. 
As  one  alights  from  either  the  North  Western  Railroad  at  the  pretty 
station  of  Braeside,  or  from  the  Milwaukee  Electric  Railroad  at  the 
County  Line  Station,  he  will  observe  a  weird  old  trail  tree,  weird, 
because  of  its  denuded  grace,  the  remnant  of  a  once-picturesque 
landmark.  The  writer  feels,  as  others,  that  even  in  its  present  ghostly 
condition  it  is  worthy  of  preservation.  Looking  at  this  historical 
landmark  from  the  viewpoint  of  an  artist,  one  is  charmed  by  its 
appearance  of  antiquity,  while  beneath  moonlight  it  shimmers  with 
a  mystical  presence,  as  if  holding  a  secret  it  would  fain  impart. 
Then  it  becomes  something  more  than  a  fragment  of  timber.  It  is 
a  seer  connected  with  the  long  ago,  when  the  red  man  was  lord  of 
the  soil,  and  it  is  reverenced  according  to  one's  intelligent  apprecia- 
tion of  that  which  aids  in  the  traditions  of  a  nation. 


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Westward  from  this  old  landmark  lies  a  country  of  fairest 
undulations.  On  the  right  are  the  remains  of  an  old  orchard,  once 
a  portion  of  the  pioneer  farm  garden;  to  the  left,  a  lovely  grove,  and 
now  the  feet,  not  softly  moccasined  as  those  that  patted  down  the 
original  trail,  are  firmly  planted  on  the  historic  Green  Bay  Road, 
which,  to  use  the  words  of  an  undisputed  authority  on  the  trails 
of  the  Indian,  Mr.  Albert  F.  Scharf,  "chasses  in  and  out,  yet  always 
maintains  its  importance  as  a  highway  of  significance."  We  shall 
presently  return  to  this  point  of  intersection,  and  have  something 
more  to  say  of  this  highway  in  its  present  impressiveness. 

Meanwhile,  still  following  the  westward  trail,  which  is  now  a 
good  country  road — graveled,  and  defining  the  boundary  lines  of  Cook 
and  Lake  counties — one  is  imbued  with  a  sense  of  the  road  assum- 
ing a  downward  slope,  and  for  reason.  Presently  the  road  pushes 
the  trees  aside,  and  there  is  consciousness  of  vast  air  space  and 
distances  fraught  with  a  tranquillity  and  harmony  suggestive  of  the 
poet's  declaration:  "God  made  the  country."  It  is  the  Valley  of  the 
Skokie.  Note  the  gentle  contours  of  its  billowy  slopes,  as  with 
wave-like  semblance  they  catch  each  vagrant  line  and  curve  and 
sweep  toward  yon  crested  hillocks  and  knolls  which  fold  themselves 
in  the  blue-curtained  horizon.  Evening  finds  them  swathed  in 
crimson  and  gold,  even  as  the  robe  of  the  sun-god  himself. 

Southwest,  beyond  the  marge  of  the  sedges  and  flags  and  tall 
grasses,  sprinkled  o'er  with  jewels  of  wild  flower  growth,  which  closely 
border  the  stream  itself,  the  harvest  is  being  reaped,  while  north- 
east from  our  point  of  vantage  on  the  steel  and  cement  bridge,  span- 
ning the  clear,  deep,  but  reed-embowered  waters,  Lake  County  is 
smiling  in  a  shimmer  of  July  haze.  Now  a  bit  of  open  prairie,  with 
waving  grasses,  and  then  the  ripple-like  contour  of  the  uplands, 
whose  shadowy  groves  lift  skyward  and  receive  a  benediction  of 
light  that  enhances  their  loveliness.  It  is  an  atmosphere  impregnated 
with  romance,  and  no  great  stretch  of  imagination  is  required  to 
picture  the  long  ago — the  Indian  hunter  fleeing  as  the  wind  across 
that  bit  of  open;  or  with  canoe,  paddling  the  waters,  happy  in  the 
thought  that  the  swiftly-speeding,  yet  true-sighted  arrow  from  his 
taut  bow  will  bring  down  the  coveted  game. 

How  much  we  have  gained,  my  Red  Brother,  by  thy  vagrant 
ways  of  life!  Thou  didst  not  hack  and  hew  the  forests,  prey  upon 
bird  and  beast  for  the  sole  purpose  of  destruction !  Skins  for  clothing 
and  hides  for  shelter,  with  flesh  for  food,  and  feathers  as  distinguish- 
ing insignia  among  thy  kind!  Surely  thy  wants  were  few.  \Vith 
such  musings  the  old  highway  of  travel — the  Green  Bay  Road — is 
again  beneath  our  feet. 


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This  highway,  from  rim  to  rim  of  the  present  roadbed,  is  now 
of  macadam  with  a  top  dressing  of  tarvia.  Farther  northward  cement 
walks  with  beautifully  shaded  parkways  impress  one  with  the  fact 
that  here  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  up-to-dateness  has  seized  upon 
the  old  trail  in  that  immediate  locality.  But  before  reaching  the 
latter,  it  is  worth  while  to  note  a  few  of  the  landmarks  of  note, 
for  west  of  the  highway  there  still  remain  a  few  of  the  farmhouses 
which  followed  immediately  after  the  log-cabin  period.  These  have 
extensive  acreages,  but  no  longer  under  the  free,  full  cultivation  of 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  when  this  highway  first  attracted  the 
interest  of  the  writer  of  this  work. 

But  it  is  no  fairy  tale,  this  story  of  the  farmer  in  the  locality  in 
question  disposing  of  land  at  from  four  to  five  thousand  dollars  per 
acre  today,  which  but  yesterday  either  he  or  his  father  acquired 
for  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  per  acre  or  less.  Such  acreages 
are  now  being  used  as  sites  for  country  seats. 

Facing  about  to  the  southwest  is  one  of  these  magnificent  country 
homes  nearing  completion.  Its  environment  of  broad,  sweeping 
undulations  of  groves  and  emerald  meadows  reaching  toward  the 
lovely  valley  is  an  inspiration  to  the  manipulator  of  the  camera. 
There  is  a  kingly  tree  caught  in  the  view.  This  oak  bears  impress 
of  a  century  or  more  of  growth.  Alas!  why  have  not  trees  speech? 
In  a  measure  they  have.  Yet,  it  is  tantalizing  that  one  cannot 
successfully  interview  this  monarch  of  the  Uplands.  It  has  felt 
the  sod  vibrate  to  the  swift,  onward  rush  of  the  unshodden  hoofs 
of  the  Indian  ponies  as  their  riders,  with  knees  closely  pressed  to 
heaving  flanks,  urged  them  in  the  direction  of  the  chase.  It  has 
also  been  a  silent  witness  to  the  red  man's  undoing. 

Yonder,  just  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Ravinia  railway  station,  is  a 
mound  of  historic  interest.  It  is  one  of  the  few  Indian  mounds 
to  receive  attention  in  this  vicinity.  Exploration  revealed  its  use 
as  a  sepulchre  of  cremation.  Who  shall  write  its  story  and  connect 
it  with  that  of  other  mounds  discovered  and  undiscovered  in 
this  particular  region?  For  in  our  haste  toward  empire-building 
we  are  walking  recklessly  over  history,  and  trampling  down  tradi- 
tion, both  of  which  are  important  assets  toward  the  fostering  of 
Art  by  a  nation. 

For  how  many  centuries  the  red  man  occupied  this  territory  no 
one  is  bold  enough  to  declare  with  certainty,  but  his  wigwam  occupied 
just  such  sites  as  those  upon  which  are  now  seen  some  of  the  most 
charming  of  country  homes.  In  fact,  it  is  a  site  par  excellence  for 
this  particular  form  of  home-building,  and  lucky  is  the  Chicago  man 
who  appreciates  the  advantages  of  dwelling  remote  from,  yet  con- 


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venient  to  the  city  itself,  in  a  neighborhood  combining  all  that  is 
desirable  in  landscape  beauty  and  transportation  facilities. 

"  Bob-o-link  Knolls!"  Repeat  it  over,  then  you  become  aware 
of  its  poetic  charm,  its  musical  rhythm!  And  you  recall,  if  familiar 
with  the  poet's  writings,  Bryant's 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 

Xear  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain  side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  telling  his  name; 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  in  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers, 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

"Well  enough  bob-o-link  knows  he  is  safe  in  the  "Knolls"  border- 
ing this  historic  highway.  For  this  beautiful  home,  an  adaptation 
from  the  Elizabethan  style  of  architecture,  is  erected  on  one  of  the 
most  pretentious  of  the  knolls,  and  commanding  a  view  of  an  extensive 
country  and  the  beautiful  valley.  This  country  seat  has  twenty- 
five  acres  to  its  estate,  in  which  the  lay  of  the  land  suggests  that 
Nature  was  giving  an  artistic  expression  to  the  whole  when  she 
modeled  and  draped  the  hillocks  and  knolls  and  crests. 

To  the  formal  garden,  commanding  a  vista  of  the  valley,  is  borne 
in  the  atmosphere  of  its  stately  pergola,  the  challenge  of  the  "  spink, 
spank,  spink"  and  the  "chee,  chee,  chee,"  with  a  confidence  sug- 
gested in  the  lines  of  the  poet  that  "thieves  and  robbers"  he  "need 
not  fear."  But  we  turn  from  "  Bob-o-link  Knolls"  with  all  its  enchant- 
ment of  woodland,  its  garden  rich  with  bloom  and  its  wonderfully 
interesting  families  of  bob-o-links  and  other  feathered  favorites,  and 
resume  our  journeyings  northward. 

Here,  where  a  country  home  is  now  located,  was  formerly  the 
site  of  the  Catholic  Mission  Church,  known  as  "St.  Mary's  of  the 
Woods."  It  was  raised  in  the  wilderness  in  1846,  for  remember  that 
it  was  not  until  1836  that  Lake  County  assumed  any  aspect  of  white 
settlement.  The  Indian  had  not  wholly  vacated  the  territory,  and  by 
permission  of  the  United  States  government  he  still  hunted  in  this 
locality.  So  that  in  the  year  of  the  building  of  this  little  mission  church 
there  must  have  been  comparatively  few  white  settlers.  In  1848  it 
was  also  used  for  school  purposes,  the  son  (still  living)  of  one  of 
the  pioneer  settlers,  then  a  lad  of  nine,  receiving  his  education  there. 

In  1888,  when  the  writer  first  saw  this  picturesque  church  of 
logs,  it  had  long  since  been  abandoned,  and  only  the  large  cross  of 
black  walnut,  erected  nearby,  and  the  graves  and  headstones  in  the 


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adjoining  churchyard  gave  intimation  of  its  sacred  character.  Tra- 
dition tells  of  the  huge  cross  having  been  made  at  Gross  Point;  of 
its  being  hauled  to  its  site  in  1853  by  a  team  of  oxen,  and  that  the 
good  Father  Weyinger,  the  missionary  priest  who  had  made  the 
cross,  also  assisted  in  its  erection,  while  Father  Forthman,  the  pastor, 
celebrated  mass  in  the  sacred  edifice.  Something  should  have  been 
done  to  preserve  these  relics  of  an  interesting  past.  The  present 
owner  of  the  site  was  not  the  original  purchaser  of  the  land  on  which 
the  church  and  cross  stood. 

Immediately  north  of  this  site  the  Green  Bay  Road  assumes  a 
delightful  park-like  aspect.  Here  one  recognizes  the  deft  touch  of 
the  landscape  artist.  Trees  trimmed  to  appear  at  their  best — neither 
overdressed  in  foliage  nor  shorn  to  ugliness.  Low-lying  shrubs  and 
cunningly  snuggled-in  groups  of  flowering  plants  seem  to  be  quite 
at  home  in  this  company  of  more  aristocratic  tree  growth.  Such 
glorious  elms!  They  cast  their  subtile  shadows  over  the  roadway, 
as  if  sheltering  within  their  gracefully  arching  boughs  the  traditions 
of  the  old,  old  trail.  A  road  diverges  to  the  east.  There  is  no  trail 
tree  to  designate  its  mission,  however.  A  less  picturesque  sign 
announces  the  fact  that  it  is  Lincoln  Avenue,  named,  undoubtedly, 
in  honor  of  the  revered  and  martyred  president  by  that  name. 

Diagonally  from  this  beautiful  park-like  corner,  and  in  a  superb 
setting  of  lawn  and  shrub  and  majestic  elms,  is  one  of  those  institu- 
tions which  has  superseded  the  "little  red  schoolhouse"  of  American 
pioneer  fame.  The  writer  knows  of  no  other  schoolhouse  site  so 
beautifully  located  as  to  spaciousness  and  exhibiting  such  reposeful 
character  of  architecture  as  Highland  Park's  Lincoln  school.  Surely 
from  such  environment  must  come  those  who,  in  the  words  of  Lowell, 
will  say  in  the  not -far-distant  future:  "  Before  man  made  us  citizens, 
great  Nature  made  us  men." 

Here  trends  another  divergent  road,  adjacent  to  the  schoolhouse 
grounds,  but  west  of  the  Green  Bay  Road — "Fairview  Avenue!" 
The  name  must  have  been  an  inspiration,  for  "fair  view"  it  is,  as 
well  as  "far  view."  Whether  on  the  site  of  an  Indian  trail,  the 
writer  has  not  been  able  to  determine.  But  accepting  as  a  matter 
of  fact  the  red  man's  intelligent  distinguishing  traits  in  patting 
down  these  remarkable  by-ways,  it  would  not  be  a  matter  of 
surprise  if  Fairview  Avenue  covers  an  original  trail  to  desirable  game 
haunts.  The  sportsman  of  today  would  not  hesitate  to  follow  its 
fascinating  undulations,  environed,  as  it  is,  by  a  growth  suggestive 
of  whatever  game  there  may  be  left  to  his  choice — for  the  Indian 
did  not  bag  it  all.  It  was  the  greed  of  the  pale  face  that  wrought 
its  scarcity. 


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By  and  by,  as  the  years  roll  onward,  Fairview  Avenue  may  have 
tradition  other  than  that  of  the  Indian.  For  it  is  a  matter  of  record 
that  this  beautiful  highway  was  laid  out  and  paved  by  the  generosity 
of  one  of  Chicago's  leading  business  men.  This  man  saw  its  possi- 
bilities as  a  landscape  effect — the  lovely  Valley  of  the  Skokie  in 
view,  while  the  woodlands  beyond  lift  into  the  blue,  and  beckon 
with  no  uncertain  meaning  to  the  creator  of  country  seats.  Under 
the  noonday  sun  it  fairly  revels  in  color  and  scintillates  in  tremulous 
distances;  in  the  twilight  and  the  afterglow  it  languishes  in  mystic, 
shadowy  repose,  while  there  is  borne  in  on  the  purpling  atmosphere 
the  round,  full,  tender  reiteration  of  the  whip-poor-will's  song. 

In  close  proximity  is  another  country  seat,  its  eastern  boundary 
denned  by  the  famous  trail.  Its  groups  of  shrubbery  and  wealth  of 
foliage  inside  the  unobtrusive  and  refined  iron  fencing,  resting  on  a 
base  of  masonry  and  strengthened  by  brick  pillars  with  stone  capitals, 
impart  an  air  of  seclusion.  But  the  wide-open  gates  suggest  hos- 
pitality, as  well  as  an  attitude  of  dignified  repose,  very  appropriate 
to  its  environment.  There  is  another  very  attractive  entrance  to 
this  beautiful  domain  of  forty  acres,  and  unchallenged  we  slip  through 
this  latter  gateway  into  a  world  of  charm. 

Its  pathway  is  as  sinuous  as  that  of  an  old  trail.  Like  the 
highway  beyond,  it  conceals  and  reveals,  gently  dips  and  as  subtly 
lifts.  On  either  side  is  a  veritable  country  flower  garden  in  a  nook 
by  itself.  The  familiar  perennials  as  well  as  most  of  the  old-time 
annuals  are  here.  And  the  fragrance  of  it  all!  A  subtle  commingling 
of  sweets  that  spill  their  perfume  in  gentle  guise  on  every  zephyr, 
willing  to  bear  it  to  each  neighboring  copse.  Passing  beneath  the 
grape  arbor  of  white,  broadly  squared  lattice — the  finer  variety 
would  be  out  of  place  in  this  expanse  of  lawn  and  shrub  to  which 
it  is  leading — the  home,  stately  and  of  dignified  architecture,  similar 
to  the  old  manor  houses  of  England,  is  seen  through  vistas  of  waving 
green. 

"Ridge wood!"  Another  appropriate  designation.  For  the  site 
of  the  home  itself  is  on  a  ridge  or  crest  of  a  group  of  the  fairest- 
crowned  uplands  that  command  an  extensive  view  of  the  peaceful 
vale  slumbering  in  a  consciousness  of  reposeful  comeliness  and  grace. 
A  pergola-like  archway  and  a  hedge  of  sweet  peas  and  other  free, 
flowering  varieties  separate,  yet  unite,  this  main  upland  from  a 
gentle  slope  that  is  under  cultivation,  providing  fruits  and  vegetables 
in  season  for  the  home  table.  Beyond,  far,  far  beyond,  in  a  south- 
westerly direction,  first  up,  then  down,  and  again  down  and  up,  billow 
the  grove-crested  uplands  toward  the  horizon.  It  is  another  view 
of  the  valley. 


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Again  to  the  west,  and  from  a  vantage  point  of  the  home  itself, 
where  most  of  the  undergrowth  has  been  cleared,  and  the  trees  given 
opportunity  to  reach  and  spread  through  the  most  enchanting  vistas, 
the  valley  again  comes  into  view.  A  few  of  the  old-time  farm  build- 
ings are  holding  a  distant  slope,  while  the  Skokie  glimmers  as  a 
thread  of  silver  ingeniously  wrought  into  a  bit  of  tapestry,  whereby 
the  varied  hues  are  held  in  one  harmonious  whole. 

To  the  northwest  and  from  the  same  point  of  view  tier  after  tier 
of  upland  and  grove,  in  which  many  stately  landmarks  of  the  original 
forest  appear,  greet  one  with  an  infinitude  of  pleasurable  surprises, 
for  it  never  appears  exactly  the  same,  although  always  beautiful, 
ever  inspiring,  this  Valley  of  the  Skokie.  Shadows  from  cloudland 
speed  across  its  wake,  or  the  sun  gilds  its  glistening  foliage  into 
jeweled  splendor,  while  the  winds  produce  the  wave-like  motion  of 
the  sea,  and  snow  serves  but  to  bring  it  all  nearer  and  into  a  closer 
intimacy.  And  what  unsurpassed  charm  of  grace  lies  in  the  etched 
lines  of  these  wooded  crests  when  every  branch  and  twig  stands 
revealed  in  the  subdued  light  of  winter! 

The  far-famed  Exmoor  Golf  Club  of  Highland  Park  is  also  located 
in  this  valley.  Here  are  one  hundred  and  fifty  acres  in  which  upland, 
vale  and  grove  blend  in  such  refined  harmony  that  one  almost  hesitates 
to  speak  of  anything  commonplace  in  the  presence  of  Nature's  lovely 
handiwork.  Apart  from  the  physical  and  mental  vigor  acquired  by 
the  sane  use  of  a  golf  course — neither  overdoing  the  limit  of  a  health- 
ful fatigue  nor  taking  the  exercise  as  a  mere  fad — the  charm  of 
picturesque  distances,  of  green  slopes  foliage  crowned,  losing  their 
contours  in  the  lovely  hazy  distance,  produce  an  exhilaration  of  men- 
tal attitude  that  is  beneficial. 

The  portion  of  the  Green  Bay  Road  covered  by  the  writer  has 
an  altitude  of  about  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  feet  above  Lake 
Michigan,  which  is  about  a  mile  east.  From  the  road  one  may  view 
the  eastern  portion  of  Highland  Park  snuggled  between  a  lordly 
tree  growth,  but  trending  downward  toward  the  bluffs.  This  is 
explained  by  the  fact  that  one  is  on  much  higher  ground  than  the 
city  proper. 

The  writer  has  endeavored  to  cull  from  upland,  vale  and  grove, 
as  well  as  from  its  architecture,  both  past  and  present,  a  story  of 
the  Green  Bay  Road,  which  is  here  so  intimately  associated  with  the 
traditions  of  the  Valley  of  the  Skokie.  It  is  a  vale  of  untold  charm 
and  interest  to  artist,  to  poet,  and,  in  fact,  to  anyone  and  everyone 
who  feels  that  there  is  much  worthy  of  record  in  just  such  nooks  of 
our  beautiful  Western  country. 

The  movement   toward   settlement,   once  initiated,   was    swifter 


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than  that  of  the  Atlantic  seaboard  and  adjacent  territory.  There- 
fore, much  that  should  have  been  preserved  for  historical  purposes 
has  been  destroyed,  and  very  little,  comparatively,  has  been  written 
on  this  subject.  This  fair  Illinois  has  produced  statesmen,  orators, 
soldiers,  and  it  will  yet  give  to  the  country  a  poet  who  shall  sing 
of  the  magnificence  of  her  fast-disappearing  prairies,  of  her  red 
men's  trails,  as  well  as  of  a  hundred  and  one  conditions  that  help  to 
build  a  nation's  history  and  tradition. 


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NEW  PRESBYTERIAN  CHURCH 
Highland  Park,  111. 


THE  MORAINE 
Highland  Park,  111. 


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Pagr  thirty 


THE  FRANKLIN  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


